“If I were in your place,” the Master continued, “I should not waste any more time on that production, but would paint a figure piece—a Jeanne d’Arc, or some classical, or Biblical subject: pictures of this kind always create a sensation in the Salon, and—get three-fourths of the recompenses besides,” he added shrewdly.
“But it is too late to do that this year,” answered Joe; “there is barely a month before the pictures must be sent to the Palais de l’Industrie.”
“That is true,” admitted the Master wearily.
“I must send this picture in,” continued Joe, “or nothing.”
“Then,” replied the Master promptly, “I would send in nothing.”
Randall was silenced and thoroughly discouraged by this rejoinder. He thought bitterly over his want of success. He had sent pictures to the three preceding Salons, and all of them had been declined. If he followed the advice just given him he would have to wait a whole year before he would have another chance to make his bow to the public as a real, a professional painter. It was too maddening and the more he thought about it the more miserable he became. He showed this state of feeling plainly in his face, and the Master forgot himself long enough to notice it, and to his own very great astonishment was touched.
“Is it very important that you should exhibit something this year?” he inquired in a kinder voice.
“Yes,” replied Joe, nearly bursting into tears, “it is of the utmost importance to me. I have been refused for three years in succession, and if I do not get something into the Salon this spring, my father will think that my picture has been rejected again, and will probably send for me to come home and make me give up art.”
“In that case,” said the Master firmly, “we must get you in.”